Page 52 of Widow's Walk

“Gotherella.”

I look at him with confusion, creasing my brows. It takes me a moment, but then it finally hits me. I have to steady myself on the bar top when I giggle. “I like that one too. Almost as much asLady Lobotomy.”

A dark cloud rolls in when Royce comes into the room. I only see him out of the corner of my eye, but I can feel his eyes on me. Another set of eyes burns into me, and I look up to clash with Blackwell’s. Is that why he came looking for me? Because Royce left the room after I did?

Stop it, Sinclair. He doesn’t care about you. If anything, he just wanted to make sure nobody was touching what he claims belongs to him. He wasn’t concerned for your safety.

Chapter twenty

Blackwell

The dining room is gleaming and gold.

Polished silver, expensive crystal, enough blood money in the tableware alone to fund a coup. And yet it feels oppressive.

Sinclair’s too far gone now, loose but unfiltered and dangerous. She’s drunk but not sloppy. She’s too proud for that. Her face is flushed, and her eyes are glossed over. She’s so obstinate in her opinion of me and convinced that my actions against her tonight are all out of my need to control her. That I demand to keep her on a taut leash.

My anger hasn’t been towards her. It’s beenforher. Her entire demeanor changed since the moment we got onto the jet. She is constantly throwing me for a loop, but tonight it’s different. She’s using it to hide something deeper, more painful. Seeing her go through all the emotions in the last few hours has affected me in ways I never knew I was capable of.

She settles into her seat beside me, almost missing it entirely. But my hand is already there to steady her. She hardly noticesas she starts drumming her fingers on the table, resting her chin in her propped hand like a bored heiress. Her mother clocks the movement, wrinkling her nose up in disdain.

“Still can’t hold your liquor, I see,” her father says, without looking at her. “Some things never change,” he utters under his breath.

“Not for lack of trying,” Sinclair chirps without slurring her words. She reaches for the wine as soon as it’s poured, and I hold my tongue. I’ll let her deal the way she wants to tonight.

Her brothers chuckle, low and cruel. Lincoln mutters some snide remark under his breath, and I fist the fabric on my leg.

“I see you’ve kept up with the theatrics. Always needing to be center of attention,” her mother says, staring daggers at her like the sight of her daughter repulses her.

Sinclair grins after drinking some wine. “I like to give the people what they want.”

My nostrils flare as I white-knuckle my fork. I glance at Dane and Harlan across from me and see them trying to hide their smirks. But I can’t see the amusement here.

“And you still think leather and fishnets are formal wear,” Royce jumps in. “What’s next? Cosplay?”

“No, I save those for your dreams,” she replies sweetly, ripping a large chunk of bread off to shove into her mouth.

She might as well have ripped a piece of my heart off. I don’t know how much longer I can stomach this. I clench my teeth so hard I taste blood.

“Charming how you’ve never evolved past rebellion,” her mother tries to say without retaliation.

“And it’s charming how you’ve evolved into nothing more than skin, bones, bitterness, and Botox,” Sinclair claps back so easily, it’s impressive.

“I did warn you,” her father says to me, trying to pass off passive aggression for fun banter with a chuckle. “You’d have your hands full.”

“I’d rather have my hands full than empty,” I say, stabbing at my food with enough force to crack the China.

“Those who crave silence seem to never shut up,” Dane mutters, and the room falls dead silent. His words aren’t directly pointed at the Ortizs, but we all know who they’re for.

Dane hardly speaks up. It’s typically Harlan tossing in comments, but they seem to have switched roles momentarily. Dane is past the point where he can no longer stay quiet, and Harlan is too, where he doesn’t trust what will come out of his mouth if he opens it.

My father clears his throat. “Funny. Most families at least pretend to get along in public,” he says in a way that is intended to lighten the mood, earning a chuckle from a few. But I know it isn’t in humor.

“We’ve never been good at pretending,” her father replies.

Sinclair falls back in her chair and laughs too loudly. But I don’t watch her. I’m too preoccupied with keeping a vigilant eye on her father and brothers as their faces turn crimson. If they so much as flinch in her direction, so help me God, I won’t be able to stop myself.

Her father, ever the coward, changes the subject. Veering towards safer terrain before Sinclair can recover and begin to spill, splaying all their dirty laundry.

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